Tomorrow, Thursday, September 27, my blog tour promoting the release continues with a post at the site of my dear friend Stephen Leigh. Again, I will be discussing the writing of time travel.

On Friday, September 28, I will be visiting the blog of friend and wonderful writer Stina Leicht. My post for Stina’s blog is about world building for the Islevale series.

On Monday, October 1, I’ll be doing a Q&A with fellow Angry Robot author Patrice Sarath at her site.

Tuesday, October 2, is release day, and I’ll have an essay up at Black Gate — a continuation of my “Books and Craft” series, on key craft elements of classic books. I’ll be discussing Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea Trilogy, which has long been one of my favorite works. In fact, I intended my world for this new series, Islevale, as an homage to Earthsea.

Wednesday, October 3, I will be doing another Q&A, this one with another friend, Bradley Beaulieu.

And on Thursday, October 4, I will be at the site of Joshua Palmatier, author and editor extraordinaire, as well as the founder of Zombies Need Brains. Joshua and I have worked on several short fiction projects together, and I wrote a story for him that is set in Islevale. The story is called “Guild of the Ancients.” It appears in GUILDS AND GLAIVES, and anthology Joshua co-edited with S.C. Butler.

We writers, though, are complex creatures. We grapple with Imposter Syndrome, but we also harbor a unique brand of arrogance…

Last night, for reasons surpassing understanding, I started reading through one of my old books. I know. What was I thinking, right?

I’m not going to tell you which book. Suffice it to say that I love all my babies, and they’re all perfect and beautiful.

Except obviously they’re not.

Weak phrasing, passive constructions, lack of concision and power when the passages in question called desperately for both.

This is a published book, one that garnered strong reviews when it was released, and I did all these things wrong without realizing it. Just last week, I took students at the Antioch Writers’ Workshop to task for the very sins I committed myself years before.

So what am I to make of this?

Because I’m a writer, and because, like so many of my writerly brothers and sisters, I suffer from recurring Imposter Syndrome, the first place my mind went was also the most obvious: “I suck. I’ve always sucked. My newest work sucks. And this book that I was foolish enough to pull off the shelf and crack open sucks.”

We writers, though, are complex creatures. We grapple with Imposter Syndrome, but we also harbor a unique brand of arrogance. “I’ve written this story,” we say. “And it is so important, so good, so compelling, that you ought to read it. In fact, you should pay for it and read it.” I’m not saying necessarily that the arrogance is misplaced. After all, it is, and has always been, the foundation of commercial literature. But that doesn’t make it any less arrogant.

And so that part of me, the arrogant-writer-me, read this old, flawed work of my own creation, and landed in a different place than did imposter-syndrome-me. Arrogant me said, “Sure, it has its warts. But at the time I wrote it, it was the best book I was capable of writing. And given that it was published, and well-reviewed, and well-received by my fans, I think it must be pretty good.”

Arrogance. Confidence. It isn’t always easy to discern the line between the two.

Ultimately, of course, I need to find some middle ground between these two extremes. If I am going to wake up each morning and write — which I intend to do for another, oh, thirty years or so — I can’t allow myself to believe that I suck. For one thing, I don’t. More important, internalizing that sort of self-denigration can’t help but undermine my craft and story telling.

At the same time, though, the self-satisfaction of arrogant-writer-me can be equally destructive. I might not suck, but I’m also not yet as good as I want to be, nor will I ever be. I hope never to grow complacent with my art. I want to strive for improvement with each new book or story.

Which brings us back to my ill-considered decision to open up that old novel. It is flawed. It’s also a good read. It was the best book I could write at the time. I worked hard to make it so. But it’s also not nearly as good as my more recent work. As I continue to create new worlds, new characters, new narratives, I further hone my skill as a writer. I cling to my arrogance: You really should buy and read my next book. And I grapple with my imposter syndrome: The only way I am going to survive in this business is if I make myself a better writer than I am today.

Put another way, imposter-syndrome-me and arrogant-writer-me don’t have to be extremes that I avoid and deny. They can be sources of motivation, tools (perhaps cudgels) I use to make myself a better artist.

And I offer this because, as I have already pointed out, nearly all of us who write harbor within us both of these archetypes. We are, in the end, arrogant imposters, deeply conscious of the flaws in our work, but justifiably proud of our literary accomplishments, striving always to improve and at the same time convinced that we have something important to say.

This is a big day in my world. Today saw the official pub date announcement and cover art reveal for TIME’S CHILDREN, book I in The Islevale Cycle, my new epic fantasy/time travel series. The series is being published by Angry Robot Books. The first volume will be out on October 2 and will be available as a trade paperback and also in all electronic formats. You can preorder here.

As a bonus, you also get to see the jacket art for TIME’S DEMON, the second book in the series, which will be out in May 2019. Follow the link.

I love these books. I think they represent my finest work to date. I hope you enjoy them, too. As more news about the releases becomes available, I’ll pass it along. In the meantime, you can read excerpts from the books in my newsletter. There is a sign-up link in the menu along the side of this page. Not only am I providing book teasers, I’m also running monthly giveaways. You can win a free, signed copy of one of my books just by subscribing. Pretty cool, eh? So what are you waiting for? Follow the link! Check out the art! Subscribe to the newsletter! And please enjoy!

Writing is fits and starts. It is slog and glide. It is by turns frustrating and exhilarating and frustrating yet again. This is hard. Anyone who tells you otherwise is doing you a disservice.

Earlier this week, I found myself struggling with my work-in-progress. The story had been moving along well until, without any warning, my momentum stalled. I had turned to a new section, switching point of view characters, and my new narrator was grappling with self-doubt, churning through emotions that required exploration. They were as difficult for me to describe as they were for her to process.

Yesterday, as she finally achieved a bit of clarity, so did my writing. I regained the momentum I had lost, and she moved forward again, emotionally and physically.

Now, I suppose it’s not super revelatory that as our characters struggle, we often do, too, and that clarity for them can carry with it clearer storytelling for us. But it does go to the heart of an essential truth about the creative process: Writing is not a linear act, any more than any other artistic venture. In this case, my character struggled, and I struggled along with her. She had to go through that period of self-doubt. The epiphany that came to her couldn’t have arrived earlier. She had to earn it. And so in this case, it was okay that I lost some momentum. That was what had to happen for both of us to move on.

Sometimes that’s not the case. My struggles don’t always coincide with those of my narrators. Sometimes I just scuffle. And that’s part of writing as well. Again, this is not a uniformly linear process.

Writing is fits and starts. It is slog and glide. It is by turns frustrating and exhilarating and frustrating yet again. This is hard. Anyone who tells you otherwise is doing you a disservice. But the rewards, in my experience, are always worth the pain. It’s a cliché, but one that is worth repeating: If writing were easy, if the challenges were less daunting, the successes would be less sweet.

Today is release day for TALES OF THE THIEFTAKER, the new Thieftaker short fiction collection that I am releasing as D.B. Jackson. This project has been a long time in the making, and I am extremely excited to see it in print.

For fans of the Thieftaker Chronicles series, this collection includes a special treat, “The Ruby Blade,” a full-length novella, which is the centerpiece of the compilation. This story, at long last, relates the details of Ethan Kaille’s involvement in the Ruby Blade mutiny, which led to his court martial and his years as a prisoner/laborer on the sugar plantation in Barbados.

But this is more than just a prequel. “The Ruby Blade” takes those past events and braids them together with a new adventure that begins with a visit from none other than Sephira Pryce, Ethan’s nemesis and rival in thieftaking. So we have two stories in one, and it is, I believe, the best piece of short fiction I’ve written.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Thieftaker books, this collection is a great entry to the universe, as well as a wonderful introduction to Ethan Kaille–my thieftaking, conjuring hero–and so many of the characters who inhabit his world. The Thieftaker novels and stories are set in pre-Revolutionary Boston, and they combine historical fiction with mystery and fantasy. Give them a try!

Whether you are new to the Thieftaker world or a returning fan eager for more stories about Ethan and his friends, I hope you will enjoy TALES OF THE THIEFTAKER (from Lore Seekers Press). Once again, the cover art was done by the wonderful Chris McGrath, whose work has graced the covers of all the Thieftaker novels, as well as the two stories originally published at Tor.com.

We traffic in emotion and internal monologue, in the interpretation of sensation and the vagaries of mood and feeling. Most of the time — at least ideally — we can separate our own emotions and thoughts from those of our characters. But when our own lives are roiled — by grief or loss, by jealousy or resentment, or by the slow, relentless grind of depression — separating ourselves from the turmoil we impose upon our characters grows ever more difficult.

It’s not an exaggeration to say that months have passed since my last blog post. Sharing online, be it to offer writing advice or share news of one sort or another, is an inherently public act. And for some time now, I have been in an intensely private space.

Many of you will know at least some of the reasons for this; others won’t, and really that’s all right. For the purposes of this post, the reasons don’t matter. We all deal with loss and upheaval, frustrations and disappointments, be they personal or professional. Writers are no different.

Except that’s not exactly true. We are different in that more than most people, we live in our own heads. We traffic in emotion and internal monologue, in the interpretation of sensation and the vagaries of mood and feeling. Most of the time — at least ideally — we can separate our own emotions and thoughts from those of our characters. But when our own lives are roiled — by grief or loss, by jealousy or resentment, or by the slow, relentless grind of depression — separating ourselves from the turmoil we impose upon our characters grows ever more difficult.

I found it hard to write this summer. That doesn’t happen to me often. I was wracked with self-doubt, with a sense of professional and personal helplessness the frightened me. I grappled with an emotional lethargy, the like of which I’d never experienced before, one that felt both utterly alien and dangerously alluring. Don’t fight it, it seemed to say. It’ll be so much easier if you don’t fight it.

I was exhausted, which didn’t help matters. Family and professional obligations had me traveling almost constantly: Over a span of about 16 weeks, I spent a total of more than eight weeks on the road. By the end, I was ready to cancel my final trips, which would have meant giving up a free trip to Calgary for a convention and the workshop I was to teach there, and also skipping DragonCon, which is always one of my favorite events of the year. It’s a sign of how low I was that I would consider giving up even one of those trips, much less both.

I made myself go to Calgary, not because I overcame my dark torpor, but simply because I had made a commitment to the people there. A professional writer honors such obligations and I found that I could do no less. I’m so glad I did. Because that trip to western Canada started me on the path to recovery. For a week, I had no choice but to focus outward, to interact with people — strangers and friends both — and to think about things other than those that had battered and bruised me all summer. By the time I returned home, I had started to recognize myself again, to see in my emotions and my sense of creativity something of the normal me. Since then, I’ve had a bit of good news, and I’ve had a wonderful four days at DragonCon. I’m better, and I’m overwhelmed with relief. That dark place frightened me.

People who deal with mental health issues on a day-to-day basis face far greater challenges than those with which I dealt these past few months. The pit is deeper, the path out is longer, steeper, and it’s strewn with obstacles I can barely imagine. I’m fortunate, and I know it. More to the point, I’m not so glib or ignorant as to suggest that what shook me out of my dark place will work for others. Just the opposite, really. I write today with profound admiration for those who struggle each day with depression, with the insidious lethargy that trapped me briefly this summer. I experienced it for a few harrowing weeks, and nearly succumbed to it. Some live with it daily, for years on end, and yet they soldier on.

The #HoldOnToTheLight campaign is about raising awareness of mental health issues. This summer I lost a brother who was as dear to me as anyone in this world. He struggled much of his life with depression and substance abuse, and though the thread connecting those issues with his death is thin and difficult to trace, I know it’s there. I acknowledged before that I’ve been fortunate throughout my life. He wasn’t. What I glimpsed in myself this summer, particularly after his death, he braved every day. I understand him a little better now — cold comfort to be sure, and yet illuminating. I’ll carry that knowledge with me for the rest of my life, and always it will be braided with my love for him. And all I can hope is that it will make me a better person, a better friend, a better brother to the siblings I have left, a better father and spouse, and yes, even a better writer.

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#HoldOnToTheLight is a blog campaign encompassing blog posts by fantasy and science fiction authors around the world in an effort to raise awareness around treatment for depression, suicide prevention, domestic violence intervention, PTSD initiatives, bullying prevention and other mental health-related issues. We believe fandom should be supportive, welcoming and inclusive, in the long tradition of fandom taking care of its own. We encourage readers and fans to seek the help they or their loved ones need without shame or embarrassment.

Please consider donating to or volunteering for organizations dedicated to treatment and prevention such as: American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, Hope for the Warriors (PTSD), National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), Canadian Mental Health Association, MIND (UK), SANE (UK), BeyondBlue (Australia), To Write Love On Her Arms (TWLOHA) and the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.

To find out more about #HoldOnToTheLight, find a list of participating authors and blog posts, or reach a media contact, go to http://www.HoldOnToTheLight.com and join us on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/WeHoldOnToTheLight

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David B. Coe/D.B. Jackson is the award-winning author of nineteen fantasy novels. As David B. Coe, he writes The Case Files of Justis Fearsson, a contemporary urban fantasy from Baen Books consisting of Spell Blind, His Father’s Eyes, and Shadow’s Blade. Under the name D.B. Jackson, he writes the Thieftaker Chronicles, a historical urban fantasy from Tor Books that includes Thieftaker, Thieves’ Quarry, A Plunder of Souls, and Dead Man’s Reach.

David is also the author of the Crawford Award-winning LonTobyn Chronicle, which he has recently reissued, as well as the critically acclaimed Winds of the Forelands quintet and Blood of the Southlands trilogy. He wrote the novelization of Ridley Scott’s movie, Robin Hood. David’s books have been translated into a dozen languages.

He lives on the Cumberland Plateau with his wife and two daughters. They’re all smarter and prettier than he is, but they keep him around because he makes a mean vegetarian fajita. When he’s not writing he likes to hike, play guitar, and stalk the perfect image with his camera.

I’ve published nineteen novels, written lots of short stories, and (for those who like their cautionary tales with a dollop of irony) even co-authored a book on writing. And here I was, totally enamored of a manuscript that had deep structural issues. I should have known better.

Writers tend to want to share on social media when things are going well. We love to trumpet our happy news, and I’m certainly no different.

There are sound reasons for this. One is purely professional: It helps our careers to focus on the good stuff, to show the world new cover art, or to announce an upcoming release, the sale of a book to a publisher, an award nomination or great review from a major journal. Publicizing these things contributes to what the industry refers to as “buzz.” We want people to talk about us, and about our work, for the right reasons.

There is also a purely human reason: As I have said many, many times, writing is a difficult way to make a living. It can be frustrating, even demoralizing. We do much of our work in isolation, struggling with story lines and character arcs, and it can seem, at times, as though those tidbits of good news come all too infrequently. So, when things do go well, we want to shout it from the rooftops. And when those disappointments come, we tend to keep them to ourselves.

Which is why this is such an unusual post for me.

I’m dealing with a professional setback, and I believe it’s worth discussing publicly, because it represents, in many respects the very essence of what a writing career is like. Now let me be clear: In the larger scheme of things, this is a minor reversal, a tiny blip in the course of my career and something I will address and overcome quickly. But it certainly knocked me on my butt for a few days.

In December, I turned in a manuscript to my agent. This is a new project, the first volume in what I expect will be a time travel/epic fantasy trilogy (or more). In my excitement, I announced on Facebook and elsewhere that I had completed the book. I’m pretty sure I said at the time that it was the best work I had done to date. I’ve since been working on the sequel, and just last week I announced, again on Facebook and elsewhere, that I was 50,000 words in to book two.

The day following that most recent announcement, I received editorial notes on the first book from my agent–the terrific Lucienne Diver. And she tore the book to shreds. Poor pacing, lack of tension, slow development of my plot, flaws in the logic of my narrative that seemed to make things far, far too easy on my characters. There was more, but I’ll stop there because, you know, pride.

As you might imagine, I was devastated, and here’s why: A) She was right in just about everything she said; and B) I had thought the book was great and I couldn’t begin to imagine how I could have been so wrong. I’ve been writing professionally for over 20 years. I’ve published nineteen novels, written lots of short stories, and (for those who like their cautionary tales with a dollop of irony) even co-authored a book on writing. And here I was, totally enamored of a manuscript that had deep structural issues. I should have known better.

I wallowed in self-pity and woe-is-me histrionics for a couple of hours, and then called my wise and wonderful friend, Faith Hunter, who basically said, “Yup, happens to all of us. Get off your ass and fix it.” Which was perfect.

Because it does happen to all of us, and it points to several lessons that every writer, at every level, should keep in mind.

First of all, every manuscript has flaws. Actually, I would go further: Every published work has flaws. I have yet to read a perfect book, and I doubt very much that I ever will. This is why we revise and edit. This is why we send our books to beta readers and friends and agents for feedback.

This is also why every book needs a good editor. I don’t care who you are: J.K. Rowling, Neil Gaiman, Cormac McCarthy, Toni Morrison, the next World’s-Best-Novelist, or the next Self-Published-Sensation. Whoever you are, or think you might be, you need an editor. I fancy myself a pretty decent self-editor, and with some books and stories I am. But I can only see so much in any of my own work. I am too close to my own creative process, too close to my own narrative assumptions. I can’t possibly anticipate every potential issue.

Yes, it’s hard to hear from someone we respect that our book, as it stands right now, is not yet ready for publication. Lucienne’s notes hurt. Each criticism felt like a kick to the gut (or a few inches lower); taken together they left me bruised and bloody. (Figuratively speaking–my agent is tough, but not quite that tough…) But taking such criticism and using it to improve the work in question lies at the very heart of what it means to be a professional writer. If we can’t abide critiques of our work, if we can’t step out of ourselves enough to see and accept and correct the mistakes we’ve made, we don’t deserve the privilege of telling stories for a living.

Even in those first couple of hours after I received Lucienne’s notes, as I cursed and flailed and did more than a bit of whining, I also started to ask myself the questions that would move me beyond this setback.

Do I still believe in the novel? Yes, I do.

Do I still love the characters and the world building? Yes, I do.

Am I still satisfied with the prose? Yes, I am.

Can I do what’s necessary to improve my story and make it worthy of those elements that remain sound? You bet your ass I can.

I already have ideas that will allow me to correct much of what my agent found lacking, and I sense the stirrings of additional ideas that will overcome the other problems. I know I can do this. I’ve fixed flawed novels before. Nineteen times, to be exact.

I’m eager to repair this book because I do love elements of it so much. I want to see it in print. I want all of you to read it. And you’ll have that opportunity, because I have no intention of giving up on the project.

I’m a writer. This is what writers do. We write, we revise, we polish, we publish. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Keep writing. Enjoy the process, in all its frustrating, harrowing glory.

Writing is a business and an art. It is a hobby and a way of life. But more than anything else — whether in the hands of an established professional or a weekend dabbler — it is a gift and a balm, a way to confront and cope and transcend and heal.

Later today I’ll be heading to the funeral of a friend. We weren’t very close — I actually know his parents better than I knew him, and therein lies part of a many-layered tragedy.

Reid was only thirty-seven when he died. For the past nineteen years, he had been confined to a wheelchair, paralyzed from the neck down after an accident as an eighteen year-old. I don’t deny that he had a rough time of it in the first few years after the accident. Hell, he was eighteen. But . . .

But, but, but . . .

He attended and completed college, then went on to graduate school. He taught at a private high school, counseled at a treatment center for drug and alcohol addiction, volunteered at several local organizations. And he wrote. He wrote prose, he wrote poetry. He wrote.

Writing is a business and an art. It is a hobby and a way of life. But more than anything else — whether in the hands of an established professional or a weekend dabbler — it is a gift and a balm, a way to confront and cope and transcend and heal.

As I say, I didn’t know Reid well. He had a hundred friends who meant more to him than I did. People will want to respond to this post by saying they’re sorry for my loss. Please, please don’t. My loss is just a shadow of the loss suffered by Reid’s family and the people to whom he was closest. Save your prayers and condolences for them, as I will.

Still, for years Reid and I shared a common passion and that meant something to me. I would like to think it meant something to both of us. I admired his spirit and courage, but most of all I respected the internal alchemy that allowed him to spin personal challenge into something powerful and creative and true.

What can I say? I have a bit of an OCD streak. Okay, maybe even more than “a bit.”

But setting work goals and making up a work schedule for a new year is not just about me being the writing equivalent of Felix Unger (kids, ask your parents). I find that mapping out my professional year improves my chances of meeting whatever goals I might have for the coming months.

I have always been one to make New Year’s Resolutions and to set goals for the coming year as one wall calendar gives way to the next. Probably it’s the same impulse that leads me to outline most of my books, and to organize my book and CD collections alphabetically by artist. What can I say? I have a bit of an OCD streak. Okay, maybe even more than “a bit.”

But setting work goals and making up a work schedule for a new year is not just about me being the writing equivalent of Felix Unger (kids, ask your parents). I find that mapping out my professional year improves my chances of meeting whatever goals I might have for the coming months. Because at the root of the exercise is the creation of self-imposed deadlines, which, as I’ve mentioned previously, I treat as immutable, just as I would a deadline given to me by an editor. If I keep my deadlines realistic, and I commit myself to meeting them, I should have a productive year. And as writers, we really can’t ask for more than that.

So, that said, here are my goals for 2017:

1. I have just sent off to my agent the first book in an as-yet-uncontracted new series. I love the book and look forward to writing the rest of the series. My next step in working on this project is to write a synopsis of book 1 (which will help my agent place the book with a publisher) and to write as well brief descriptions of books 2 and 3.

1.a. Once I’ve completed those preliminary steps, I want to dive in and write the second book. The first book took me a while and I have a feeling this second one will, too. I would guess that I’ll be writing the first draft of Book 2 through the end of April.

2. The next thing I have in mind to do is write a new Thieftaker novella about Ethan Kaille’s early life. (For those who are fans of the Thieftaker books, I plan to write the story of the Ruby Blade mutiny, which led to Ethan’s imprisonment.) I believe I can get this done in about 6 weeks, which will take me to mid-June. Once this is complete, I will gather all the Thieftaker short stories, of which there are about 8, and release them as a collection. I hope to see that in print by the end of the year.

3. Around mid-June I will also begin work on another new project that I’m undertaking with a couple of friends. We’re not yet ready to talk about this publicly, but essentially I will be writing a new novel of approximately 90,000 words. I should be able to have that written by the end of the summer.

4. During the summer, I will also begin editing for reissue the five books of my Winds of the Forelands series (originally released 2002-2007). As with my LonTobyn books, which I re-released in 2016 as Author’s Edits of the original books, I will be polishing and tightening the prose of these books without changing any of the plotting or character work. Since I’ll be working on item 3 at the same time — interspersing writing days with editing days — this will take me past the end of the summer and probably well into the fall.

5. Finally, I will also leave room in my schedule for the unexpected: editing work on the new project, assuming that we place it with a publisher some time during the year; short stories that I might be asked to write for anthologies or the like; travel for family stuff, or for conventions.

Those tasks should take me through much of 2017. If I can get all of that done — and I believe I can, meeting all of my self-assigned deadlines — I’ll consider it a successful year.